Children's Whims
by Imp
Summary: chapter 6 A case during Holmes' career. In need of streamlining, but not much could be lost in adding another few pages, chapter-wise. Perhaps someday, it will be finished. Soon as Doc.manager is back online
1. Very Little Known

Children's Whims

By Imp

A/N: I am now only contemplating the realm of Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, and I must say he, being such a complex character is quite a challenge. I believe that fanfiction ought to be thoroughly thought out and reasonable when it comes to Holmes, or any other character whom one respects – but in particular Holmes, for if he scoffs at Watson's accounts I'd hate to see what he considered fanfiction to be.

~

For some days now my companion and fellow lodger Sherlock Holmes had been working incessantly upon a case, which I have heretofore neither mentioned nor written anything about, saving only some few notes. It seemed that small children were being killed – accidentally was the word from Scotland-Yard, for they turned up having drowned, or starved, fallen and so on only by the forgetfulness or possible neglect of their parents or caretakers. But Holmes was quite evidently of a different view, and his adamancy upon the subject sent him into one of those peculiar moods of his, which consequently left no room for outside distractions, nor even for 'good mornings' and breakfast.

It was an odd one, though if my memory serves not the very most perplexing, yet he had been quite distracted and the wail of his violin and billows of smoke kept me awake more than once while he sat up, neglecting his sleep and bed in deepest thought.

Many things have ceased to amaze me since my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes began, but I must say that I never quite got over some of his oddities, and certainly I never got quite accustomed to the callers who favored 221b Baker Street with their presence. It was a morning after a sleepless night for my companion, and a nearly sleepless night for me that I woke and went out to breakfast to find Holmes at the table, the repast apparently having been set out for some time, yet untouched. His face was drawn, eyes distant – though only with deep thought I noted with some relief – and his long pale fingers lay upon the table, twitching and tapping with what seemed the most random movements.

As I sat I observed that no change altered his countenance so as to show that he had noticed me, and I set about getting my breakfast, for any inquiry or possible show of curiosity would gain me no more than a snarl, and I was quite used to waiting and had no objections to Mrs. Hudson's fine cooking. But to my unutterable surprise he spoke before I had even touched a spoon, and yet he did not look up or change his position in the slightest.

" Do you believe in some thing called a 'premonition', Watson?"

I remained mute for some moments, for my surprise at his sudden speech was quite buried now under the seeming absurdity of the question, and his choice to ask me such a thing was beyond any notion I had had of his current work and contemplations.

"I suppose so," I answered at last, thinking vaguely back on some few old fellows I'd know in Afghanistan, and of their words before they died.

"A rather incomplete answer, Watson, but I shan't blame you, for my inquiry is also rather abstract," said my companion pensively, and fell back into silence.

After a few moments I turned back gladly enough to my meal, and my curiosity was pushed aside and barred by patience, and then gradually forgot, very likely to remain so – for if I have not become entirely used to Holmes idiosyncrasies and his strange visitors, I have certainly become quite accustomed to having questions unanswered and patience in good supply. And if one expects an answer from my companion it must be said that if it is granted it comes when he is ready and for no manner of badgering will it be hastened. But that morning was certainly not to become any less strange or amazing, for very soon after the whole matter had passed to the back of my mind, a knock came at the door.

Holmes sprang up as though he had be struck by some wandering bolt of lightning and snapped a curt "Come in!" at which Mrs. Hudson opened the door, appearing quite startled herself, and I dare say she had seen quite a lot as my companion's landlady; she was holding a rather grey, mottled card, which she extended gingerly in the general direction of myself and Holmes while with the other she held unconsciously to the door handle.

"A man calling himself J. Van Sarn to see you, Mr. Holmes. And by all that is wonderful, he is a strange looking creature," said she, glancing uncertainly to the pale face of her lodger.

Very soon after the man himself entered, and I must say I quite agree with Mrs. Hudson's description of him, though it hardly seemed that he was destined to clear my confusion on account of Holmes's inquiry and my own curiosity for if confusion can be an adjective it would have done nicely to add it to Mrs. Hudson's picture of him.

 __

~

A/N: This is indeed, I think, short. But 'tis an experiment and I should very much like to hear any reader's thoughts, criticisms and whether they would care for me to go on. Toodles – IMP

© 2003 


	2. Visitor

Children's Whims (_working title_)

Chapter 2

By Imp

A/N: I must sincerely thank all of my reviewers. It is both useful and pleasant to receive comments and even criticisms from those of the readers who deign to use their time in such a manner. Here is another chapter, and I hope that it does not disappoint.

~

Mrs. Hudson, with something between a gasp and an exasperated cry spun round and vanished from the room. And our strange caller stood before us. And he was peculiar in the extreme. He was of middle height, sharp faced but with a rather blunt nose, and a small mouth that now trembled and twitched, sometimes seeming as if to form a word, and then shaking as if from uncontrollable emotion. If I were asked at some time to make a list of those men whom I considered the strangest of my experience, it would be certain that J. Van Sarn should surely occupy an illustrious place in it. For in his manner and countenance was the most singular mix of emotion and physical activity that I have ever witnessed.

His hair was of a light brown, streaked with premature grey, and it now fell in disordered strands over his brow as if left uncombed or as though it had been subjected to some vigourous treatment during the morning. His face was thin, though more it seemed from strain and lack of food than from ordinary means. In appearance he was far from quite extraordinary however; yet as he entered he showed all signs of such an extreme emotional discomfiture he nearly appeared quite insane. And his sharp blue eyes danced and whirled in his head like marbles thrown from a child's hand. However the absolutely absurd thing about him, was the fact that he seemed entirely incapable of remaining still more than a moment. He rocked on his heels. He twitched. His pale hands jerked and tensed, first at his side, then at his breast creating a bewildering illusion of pertinent activity.

The agitation in my companion's face had not withdrawn. Indeed, I believe he appeared quite somewhat more disturbed than I had observed him for some time. He indicated a chair with one pale hand, while the other reached pensively for his cherrywood pipe.

But our visitor made no move to sit. He rocked back on his heels for what must have been the umpteenth time, and I was only just preparing rise to assist him – for he seemed almost ill as he twitched and rocked, when he spoke. 

"You will help me, won't –you Mr. Holmes? You – really must help me – won't –you?" 

The man's speech was irregular as his bearing, for he paused and tarried between words and sentences. The effect was one of a voice calling through a storm, where words were cut-off and thoughts uncertain to the ear of the one attempting to listen.

Holmes again gestured to the chair, with some slight impatience. "If you would kindly sit, Mr. Van Sarn, and state your business, perhaps I may be of assistance."

Van Sarn took one tentative step forward, and then three swift jerking strides and collapsed into the chair like a scarecrow deprived of its supporting beam. Glancing to Holmes, I saw a light kindled in his eyes, a light that had become quite familiar to me in our time as lodgers together. He had fallen back into his own chair once our guest deigned to sit. And he now leaned forward, face thrust out with that singularly eager and intense look of a hound on a scent, fingers pressed together before his face.

"Business…?" echoed Van Sarn. "Business – yes. I mean no. Mr. Holmes " – I realized that in that queer way of speech was also a vaguely foreign accent – "Mr. Holmes – you see, I'm afraid, very."

"Pray be precise," said my companion curtly. 

"Precise?" Van Sarn echoed again. "It's – that is. I mean it is that they said you could help. They said you were the only…the only one…"

"Who?"

"Sholto… Merriweather… Some gentlemen – played cards with them – once."

"Sholto? Indeed… Continue if you please."

Van Sarn hesitated, pulling vaguely at his collar. He exhibited an unwonted vagary and uncertainty in his tone and way of speech, and to such an extent that I thought surely Holmes's asperities of manner could hardly overlook the irritation of it.

"It's that…these children, you understand, Mr. Holmes."

"The children? Yes, I thought so." 

 "They are now six dead. Six! It's so very strange. Yet it comes out very natural. And then it's hardly natural -" our visitor swallowed his words in a sharp intake of breath, and then continued.  "But that's not my problem. I mean it is –but it's not quite-"

"Perhaps," Holmes broke in, glancing sharply up. "You would do best to begin with the beginning Mr. Van Sarn. I'm certain your story would do better to advantage me, were it somewhat more complete."

Van Sarn paused, again pulling at his collar, his face above it hardly less white. I rather pitied him as I perceived his inner turmoil and desperation, but there was also something strange in him, something not at all pitiable. It may possibly have been his oddity of bearing and speech, or the situation in which he presented himself. But however it was I had a distinct feeling of uncertainty about our visitor, and wondered distantly whether his story were quite worth listening to. But then my companion's manner seemed to contradict my thoughts entirely, for he appeared as impatient to hear and eager to have precise details as ever.

"I've been traveling for some months," began Van Sarn presently. "Over England, the Continent. I've been through France, and Spain – I went even as far as Russia. But I've been all through Europe now. I was married, but my wife died only a year after my son was born – that was of course eight years now, and left us to work things out for ourselves."

"Pray forgive me for interrupting," remarked my companion. "But may I ask why you have been traveling?"

Van Sarn's restless blue eyes turned up towards the ceiling, and then dropped, shifting to gaze at the floor.

"I always wished to travel," 

"Naturally." Holmes responded, yet I caught a distinct gleam of irritation in his hard eyes. "Go on."

"Well I've been taking my son along with me, on these – excursions and such. But… I mean I didn't have too much of a choice – "

"Why didn't you?"

"I – don't have the money to hire a governess or any good lady to look after him."

"But you have the means to bring him along?"

"Well – yes!"

"Continue – please."

Again I saw the look cross my companion's face, and it seemed to me that our visitor also had sensed the impatience of his listener.

"My son's been threatened!" he burst out suddenly. 

"Where and when, if you please."

"Well I – he got a note –"

"A mere joke, perhaps?"

"Not at a bit of it – it was as serious as – as death. I fear it has something to –to with…"

"Indeed. Were you in England?"

"…Yes."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, raising his pipe thoughtfully to his lips. His gaze fell full upon Van Sarn, and I saw that he was so able to observe with his singular ability and minuteness the gentleman as though he were some specimen in a museum.

"Kindly," said my companion at last. "Keep your story to the facts, the entirely true facts if you will. I find it invariably difficult to deal with untruths when already confronted with mystery."

Van Sarn's face blanched, deathly pale and he started up, mouth opened yet devoid of word or sound. 

"How – how dare you imply that I –"

"That you lie, my good fellow." said Holmes. "I dare only what is true, I assure you. However if you wish any assistance, I advise you thoroughly to avoid falsehood. Liars are both irritating and useless to work with."

Van Sarn swayed, blinked; and then fell back into his chair with a dazed frozenness to his expression which spoke very clearly of both surprise and fright. His eyes slowly took in Holmes's lounging figure in the chair, myself sitting stiffly to the side, and then traveled vaguely to window, at which point they widened to the extent that they seemed in danger of starting from his head. With a choked off cry he sprang unsteadily but rapidly to his feet, and started with great certainty for the door. 

Holmes's manner had shifted as abruptly as Van Sarn's, before I could discern any clear reason for alarm, and he now leapt to his feet. The languid, inactive lounger was gone.

"The door, Watson!" he cried.

I was over the table and across the room in a moment. But it was too late. The nervous energy, which had so possessed our guest during the interview had quite carried him out of our reach. Below came the hurried slam of the door, a startled cry from Mrs. Hudson, and then the silence of the house descended and only the regular tap of hooves upon the cobblestones and creak of the stairs broke it. Holmes had arrived a half-second before me, and he now stood, gazing vacantly down the stair, for even he who could hardly be considered sluggish at any time had failed to waylay the fleeing Van Sarn. 

"I suppose he is quite gone," said I helplessly, feeling somehow that it was indeed a loss.

Sherlock Holmes turned towards me, and a brief spasm of irritation crossed his aquiline face. But it was almost immediately replaced by a look of vaguely amused chagrin. With a shrug he pushed the door shut and fell into his armchair gazing thoughtfully at me as he reached again for his pipe.

"Do you know," said he thoughtfully. "I really ought to have known."

And he began to laugh.

I fear that though the laughter was preferable to his brooding quiet of the morning, it proved none the better for rendering him communicative. And I found myself as perplexed as before, if not more so from Van Sarn's peculiar visit and little less curious.

~

A/N: I fear that the mystery is hardly cleared up. But I haven't the time to go on, and to be quite entirely honest the story still develops to some extent in my mind. But I am very much enjoying writing of Holmes and Watson. I don't believe I have anything else to say, and so -

Comments and even criticisms are certainly welcome. Thank you again for reviewing. Toodles - IMP


	3. Decisively Uncertain

Children's Whims _(working title_)

Chapter 3

By Imp

A/N: Forgive me if this is at all awkward – I'm not accustomed to many chaptered stories. Again, I thank my reviewers – _Estriel, Nako-chan, Kittenchatter_ (your comments are quite helpful in informing me of how, to some extent, I'm doing), _Chibi Hermione, Panther7x _(^_^ thanks for encouragement and notes on the story's flow), _March Hare _(thank you for the compliments!) – it is certainly useful to have reviewers, some or many of whom are quite articulate. I don't believe I've ever received comments in any other section of such value. 

~

My companion leaned back, the vague shadow of a smile still playing about his lips. But his burst of merriment was quickly subsiding, and I observed the tension of earlier creeping back into his features and manner.

"A premonition, Watson! A premonition!" cried he, with agitated distraction. "A premonition… Absurd, is it not?  Unexplained, unconscious warning of impending misfortune. Quite so. But is it not entirely irrational?"

Somewhat perplexed by my companion's sudden and unexpected alterations of emotion and thought, I moved across the room and sat. Observing Holmes from my seat, to the best of my ability, I perceived the tenseness of his poise and the hardness of his look, while his nervous fingers moved as constantly as our recent guest. Yet there was an excitement in his abstracted manner, an eagerness that recalled to mind the attitude of a hound having just scented its quarry.

"I fear," said I. "That I rather fail to follow your train of thought."

"Indeed!" returned Holmes, with some apparent bewilderment as to my lack of comprehension. "Ah, but I am forgetting… You neither deduce such things as I, nor have you my knowledge of the affair."

"Apparently." I responded, with perhaps some slight irritation at his manner.

But Holmes had fallen back into a silent reverie – he neither registered my annoyance, nor even my reply it appeared - and for some moments he seemed to forget entirely that I was there.

"You have been following these…'accidental' deaths in the paper, no doubt?" he inquired abruptly.

"To some extent," I answered. 

"…Pity…" said he. "They have got it quite entirely wrong. You noted, I hope, the distraction of our most recent visitor?"

"It was rather impossible to ignore," said I. "It has, I suppose, some bearing upon your inquiries?"

"Quite."

"Then Van Sarn also has some important role in this drama?" 

I was, I admit, becoming rather eager for the story. However, Holmes's attitude when dealing with mystery in no way made room for story-telling. And if explaining his thoughts and the circumstances did not directly aid his own unraveling of the crime, he was quite unlikely to remain communicative.

"It is quite likely." said Holmes, gazing absently at the sheaf of papers transfixed to the mantle by his jack-knife. "In fact it is more than probable. But his visit is, unfortunately, quite obscure."

"Well surely," said I. "He is anxious for the safety of his son?"

"Son?" echoed the detective vaguely, brow creasing. "Oh well – it is possible, I suppose. But, I fancy, highly unlikely. You see, I am not quite certain of the existence of a son. You observed, I'm sure, that half of what he put forth were pure lies, and of course there is no wisdom in believing a liar."

"More than half?" I cried in surprise.

"Obviously." continued my companion, "It is a pity though, that he chose to flee in such an inconvenient fashion."

"He was frightened," I murmured, as much to myself as to the pensive, curled-up figure in the armchair.

"Evidently," snapped Holmes. "A wretched business. Children! Children drowned, suffocated – fallen, broken their necks!"

With abrupt suddenness he relapsed into silence, and I saw by his drawn brow and the strained tension of his limbs that he had fallen into contemplation of the darker, tangled aspects of his strange inquiry; an inquiry that I had yet to be entirely satisfied as to the facts of.

"I'm afraid, dear fellow," I said at last, "That my mind is hardly more clear upon the subject."

He stirred, but for a moment it seemed that he was still quite unaware of my speech. And then he spoke, voice revealing something of his abstraction.

"Naturally." said he, returning somewhat from of his reverie. "It is, however, hardly a clear matter yet to any one."

"But surely you have a theory?" I prompted.

"Perhaps." he replied, some slight asperity creeping into his manner. "But I haven't all the facts, and I may be as incorrect in my conjecture as our good friend, Lestrade. No…no – not quite as turned about as Lestrade."

"And Van Sarn?" I persisted.

"There are too many roles which he might play, and I must discover which is the true. You do know what facts there are, I hope?"

"Briefly," I responded, frowning. "That children in different parts of the country have turned up quite dead, for what the official force has assumed – by chance or accident."

Holmes made a derisive sound, turning his gaze toward the window. The blind was half drawn, and outside a thin mist, which would certainly grow to an unpleasant fog, was sweeping down the street.

"A pretty puzzle," he murmured. "And unless I am much mistaken, simple. But then the simplicity hinges upon the suspects! And who, might I ask, would so wish to harm children? Motive. Motive is lacking in every instance!"

With that last exclamation he trailed off. And to my continued disappointment and even irritation, he would say no more. It appeared that he was quite incapable of painting a picture in words, which another human being might comprehend – for as was often the case, he was much too involved in his own thoughts to make any great effort. It was an aspect of his rather egocentric personality, that he did not strain himself in any extraordinary way to enlighten a mind less precise and perceptive than his own. And in such instances I almost invariably found myself with some few thoughts and an amazing curiosity which could not be at once quenched.

I turned my gaze thoughtlessly back to my companion, who remained staring vacantly in the direction of the window. With a sudden cry though, the still figure sprang up, recalling vividly to mind the abrupt departure of our most recent caller, and the pipe which had just filled the room with a dull grey smoke fell to the table.

"What a fool I have been, Watson!" cried he. "What a wretched fool! Blind! Blind!"

I have to admit, that his sudden movement and cry had quite amazed me. And for a moment I sat, mute, in my chair while my companion dashed across the room, catching up his jacket, showing all signs of complete insanity.

"Ah, but if I have slipped- they have done so ten-fold!" 

He stuffed a stained, mottled piece of paper into his trouser pocket, which I realized must have been our strange visitor's calling card, and then glanced rapidly about. His whole form spoke of distracted impatience, and his eyes gleamed.

"My coat – Watson – ah, here it is. How could I have so overlooked it!…"

"By heaven!" I exclaimed, starting up. "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going!" His irritation with himself transferred swiftly to me as he turned at the door; but he paused. "I must apologize for so hasty a departure, dear fellow. I should return before supper."

"For goodness sake – you haven't even had breakfast."

"You'll have to do without me," said he distractedly.

I started forward, for the hard light in my companion's eyes seemed to speak of some dire errand. However, Holmes shot me another absently irritated look, and I paused with an exasperated sigh.

"If there is danger, surely you don't intend to go entirely alone?"

"Certainly."

"But Holmes –"

"I most surely will not allow you along."

"But why in the world not?"

"My dear Watson, though your friendship is invaluable, I fear that your honesty of disposition should certainly prove disastrous to my enterprise. Kindly look over the paper for me while I'm gone – and allow any caller to wait for me, if you will."

"Are you going after Van Sarn?"

"Van Sarn? Nothing of the sort. I'm looking for the man who followed him. And just as your honesty could jeopardize my mission, so also could delay."

"Naturally." I replied, feeling quite dull as I fell back into my chair.

The door swung shut with a decided snap. And I was left wondering. 

It seemed that the few other cases in which I have played any part at all, the facts all appeared much clearer. However looking back, the past has a habit of appearing with more clarity to one's eye, and the grotesque occurrence of so many children dying in what seemed distressing accidents leant fear and confusion to my thoughts. What if they were indeed accidents though? Was it possible that my friend could go wrong in his deductions? Indeed, his talk of premonitions and such was quite obscure and senseless. And after all, he had admitted himself that there was no apparent motive for the killing. Who, indeed, would wish to harm little children?

~

A/N: I hope that this does not merely become an irritation. For still the mystery remains, and poor Watson the narrator, is trapped quite in the dark. It does though, progress to some extent, and I hope it retains consistency – though it continues in short chapters owing to my limited amount of time. And again, comments upon the story – its plot, the way in which it is told, its consistency – are welcome. Toodles - IMP


	4. Delightful Evening Indeed

Children's Whims _(working title)_

Chapter 4

By Imp

A/N: This is a longer chapter, and it has taken some time longer to work out. I will again thank my reviewers – in particular _A Whimsical Bystander_. Such high praise! Thank you.

And now to continue the narrative. 

~

It was quite some time later than the predicted time, when my companion finally returned. In the interval, and interval of nearly ten hours at the least, and a time of distinct irritation and unsatisfied curiosity for myself, I contemplated the case.

What facts I had were not terribly conclusive, and if they presented anything telling to Holmes it was beyond me to see it. However, as the day drew on – outside the fog thickening – and my companion continued to remain absent, I fell upon attempting to reason out the mystery myself. With some hours of brooding and a brief spell of skimming the papers, which I read with some suspicion, I came to what I believe was quite a plausible solution.

The facts as I gathered them – and without the aid of whatever knowledge Sherlock Holmes possessed, were these – and I fear that though they were quite clear, no motive for crime was at all apparent. 

Six children had died. To all appearances their demise had been entirely, though tragically accidental. A one Master James Terrence had been locked inside a game shed upon his family's country estate – the most suspicious of all the happenings, and had been pronounced dead of starvation. Yet the circumstances of the situation had been perfectly explained and painfully clear, and so accident it appeared. Two small girls had been found, drowned in separate lakes. And a fourth child had fallen from a balcony and broken his neck. The fifth – a girl of only three years of age – had run beneath a hansom cab. The sixth – the oldest of all of these unfortunate young ones and eleven years of age – had fallen down a stairwell, and it was supposed that his neck had been broken at the landing. All of these events had occurred in less than a fortnight and within some few days of each other. Yet no pattern could I fathom in the random and accidental deaths of so many small children. They had come from different parts of England, though granted all but one had been in the country, and none had had – as far as was apparent – any contact with the other. In attempting my companion's manner and process of reasoning, I went over names, places, dates. But not a clue did I divine, or inconsistency uncover. There was no apparent pattern or suspicion in the manner, or place, or time of death. It seemed only too obvious that it was merely a tragic coincidence, and in spite of my companion's remonstrance to the contrary, I was prepared to believe that it really could not possibly be anything else.

And yet, there was some insidious thread beneath these innocuous accidents. There was a plainly grotesque aspect to it all. I felt clearly that by no means could such things be contrived by the mere whims of Fate. 

I have to admit I fell into rather a melancholy, stretched on the sofa with all such thoughts in my head. The strange and inextricable manner of the case which seemed so clear and yet remained perplexing, sent me into a brooding quiet. I began upon another chain of deduction, assuming outright that there was some criminal motive – though what it might be was still obscure – and weaving the inexplicable Van Sarn into my reasoning.

I must confess that I had almost begun to imitate my companion's idiosyncratic habits and attitude along with his thought process. For I found that I had smoked an amazing amount of cigarettes during my introspection, and a pipe, and that I had not moved from the sofa for nearly five hours. This observation irritated me, as I have never been too fond of the atmosphere which my companion created under such circumstances, and have admonished him to that point.

 It was then nearing quite a late hour in the evening – Holmes having yet neglected to appear at the appointed time – when I came to my conclusion. A rather clever one I thought it – forgetting my annoyance with myself - and I had risen and begun to work out the more precise points upon some notepaper, when a distinct noise below arrested my attention. It was certainly the door – and there, I thought I heard footsteps upon the stair.

Outside the door there was the distinct and measured footfall, which I have come to recognize in most any circumstance. And then the door was shoved opened, and my inimitable companion stood erect in the aperture. His face was somewhat pale, and his overcoat rumpled and creased; the hat, which he held in his hand looked quite a different shape from my remembrance of it. Despite all this he appeared in amazing good spirits, but for the world I could not have said why. For if his clothing were somewhat out of place and his hat misshapen, the state of his features and the tear in his trouser leg was certainly enough to put the crowning glory upon his unusual appearance.

"My dear Holmes!" I cried, starting up.

An ugly cut ran along his face and above his left eyebrow. And below his other eye a great, ugly bruise disfigured his cheek, standing out sharply against the pale skin and hard cheekbone. Yet for all this a smile was playing about his pale lips, and the gleam in his eyes told clearly of some new addition to the state of his case.

"Good evening, Watson," said he with the most ordinary courtesy. "Don't look so very anxious – surely there is yet time for some supper?"

"Supper!" I exclaimed. "My dear fellow, you need a doctor I should think, more than your evening meal. And besides that, someone who might keep you from making such foolish escapades."

He raised his hand to his face. "Ah, you evidently refer to this. It is the result, or a result, of my most delightful excursion. But as to a doctor, my dear Watson, I am very rarely without one owing to your pertinacious goodness in remaining a lodger of 221b Baker Street."

He entered, pulling off his coat and tossing the disfigured hat into a corner. In a moment he had procured his long-used dressing gown and had fallen back comfortably into his chair.

"If you would kindly toss over the tobacco slipper, dear fellow, I will be much more amiable when it comes to being questioned," said he, reaching languidly for his pipe, a smile still creasing his lips.

"I should think that a bandage and some other such things, would do you better than your pipe," I replied, feeling both amused and anxious at my companion's good humour in spite of his injuries and evident weariness. And with my curiosity somewhat dampened by his state, I fell back into my seat.

Never the less I tossed the slipper across the room, and he caught it, brushing his cheek ruefully with the other hand.

"Perhaps a bandage would do me good," remarked he. "But the tobacco is infinitely more welcome. I am certain, that you have absolutely no idea of how I spent my day."

"Indeed." said I, moving to sit across from him. "I shall refrain then, from making erroneous guesses and listen to your exploits if you would be kind enough to expound them."

"Quite so," said he. "Guessing is an ill habit – and I should be glad to keep you from it. But you also must postpone any irritating medical examination, my good doctor – " he continued, having seen the move I made towards him.

"But you're bleeding!" I cried in exasperation.

With the manner of a scientist examining a rather vaguely interesting object, he raised his handkerchief to his brow. 

"Ah, so I am," he said thoughtfully, glancing at the stained white cloth. "But it is quite superficial. Really Watson, I wonder at your anxiety."

I fell back into my chair. The situation was quite impossible, and I realized that my companion in no way would have his will changed by any insistence upon my part.

"You haven't, I suppose, fallen under a hansom cab, or off a balcony?" 

Holmes's eyes glittered in the light and his lips quivered with a widening smile. "Not even remotely," said he. "I should have thought that your observational abilities and your medical training could not overlook the obvious causes of my injuries."

"I would again be spared the evil of guessing, if you would kindly tell me,"

"A man's knuckles to the right side of my face, my dear Watson, and the mark of a stone-slate floor to my brow."

I was, as I have said, somewhat accustomed to my companion's odd manner. And I do believe I surprised myself more by remaining unsurprised, than by this actual and rather amazing pronouncement. Indeed, I was rather more irritated with the cavalier way in which he proclaimed his reckless errand, than I was amazed.

"And the rather ragged hole in your right trouser leg?"

" – Comes from scrambling somewhat too swiftly over a wall." said he, looking as pleased as a child in a toy shoppe. "And the parallel marks near my throat come from a man's fingernails in his attempt to strangle to me from behind." he added.

I fell back, staring helplessly across at the pale, sharp-eyed man who told me so calmly – indeed, quite happily – that a man had tried to strangle him from behind. And that the marks upon his throat were from the aforementioned assailant, who also it seemed, had left the mark of his fist upon my friend's face.

"And that was your delightful evening?"

"Quite, Watson. A most invigorating and useful evening indeed."

"Honestly, Holmes; you return late –" I began in exasperation.

"Late?" he echoed.

"You enter with all signs upon your person of having been assaulted. And you tell me with a smile that a man evidently tried to kill you and that you had somehow neglected to contemplate such a possibility!"

"You sum up the facts as far as your knowledge permits, rather succinctly, my good doctor."

"I'm afraid I remain as bewildered as before. Especially as I should think you might expect that there are men in London who would wish you dead."

Holmes appeared for a moment, somewhat irritated. But he relapsed swiftly back into good humour, seeming rather too abstracted to focus upon my admonishments.

"Naturally," replied he. "Though I do admit to having been rather lax in my thoughts as to those who might resent my presence about London. But I owe you an apology. I am beginning to take up the habit of telling my tale wrong end foremost."

"Then, in your words, may I ask you to kindly come to the point and be precise?" 

He laughed merrily at my rather displeased imitation of his manner, and leaned further back into his velvet-lined armchair.

"Gladly Watson, if you would kindly be more precise in your inquiry."

"Van Sarn?"

"Ah…" murmured my companion, falling invariably back into mental abstraction. "You hit upon the point with some precision indeed, Watson. I have come upon some very suggestive clues, and have, in fact, managed another brief interview with the good Van Sarn. It was in consequence of that, that I received such careful attentions from the man whose finger marks you see upon my neck."

"You spoke again with Van Sarn?"

"Quite so. It was rather an odd twist of fate, for I had conjectured that he would be far out of reach by the time I began my investigation."

He subsided into silence, clearly contemplating more gravely the state of affairs.

"The window?" I inquired, referring to his hasty departure in context to it.

"The man who followed," said my companion. "Surely you had deduced as much?"

I was forced to confess that I had not, and with some mortification. For the vaguely condescending tone in the detective's voice was extraordinarily nettling.

"In all truth, I did not," I responded, "I have been rather occupied with my own surmises –"

"My dear Watson," cried he, "you have come to some theory of your own in my absence?"

I noted that his eye traveled quickly over the crumpled newspaper, the cigarette stubs that I had neglected upon the table-top, and the hasty scratchings of my pen over the notepaper. I handed him this, and he gazed at it intently for a moment. After a brief but minute inspection of my rather hurried notes and handwriting, he handed it carefully back to me, shaking his head.

"Excellent, Watson! Very good." said he. "But sadly, quite inadmissible."

"Inadmissible?"

"Precisely. It is an affair of England and you are quite too imaginative in drawing the Continent into your conclusions.

"But Van Sarn?"

"From the Netherlands – but he has been in England for the last eight years and has no great connection with anything at all foreign. And you must also recall that the one small child who was shoved under the hansom was of an entirely nondescript family."

I shook my head at the quick refutation of my theory that had taken hours to produce. I apologize for having not set it down, but it certainly is not necessary to the case. And surely it should have proved more confusing and of dull character to any reader, when my companion's sharp mind and reasoning had brought it so simply down, and would soon give its own deductions.

"But really Holmes – if not, what? It must surely then be accidental – a series of tragic coincidences."

"Ah, but it is not. There is always some thing criminal behind such coincidences– for really nothing connected can be said to be unconnected, whether one can explain it or not. And as for your theory, my good fellow, it misses every possible suggestive fact."

"Then you must explain," said I. "I can see that you have some certain idea of the whole matter, and you are being quite discourteous in holding out so long in your telling."

Holmes leaned back, glancing with some apparent amusement in my direction. He laughed to himself, fingering the stem of his pipe, and then turned to me, eyes gleaming. His attitude, I noted, remained light and debonair, with only the slightest indication of the hard, rather sardonic humour, which so often took him, beneath. And it was surely in stark contrast to his mood of earlier.

"I followed the man in the street," began he, smoking with that singularly distracted air which he took when it came to such enumerations. "The man, who had taken such great pains to keep our small apartments within view, that he had left himself rather uniquely visible from the window there. He was a wiry fellow, near my own height, but with a distinct stoop and a grim, sullen brow. He appeared, I must say, quite cringing and rather dull. But I soon found to my discomfiture, that he was fleet of foot, and possessed a great knowledge of the London side-alleys and byways, so that I was quite pressed to keep him in sight. 

"He led me a pretty chase about the darker lanes and uglier places of the city, and in the end found a small, amazingly filthy public house, which he entered. I followed, taking some cares to rearrange my dress so as to remain inconspicuous, and found that he had shuffled into the darkest corner, where he appeared to wait. I feigned drunkenness, Watson, and collapsed into a most advantageous seat, from which I could watch both the door and my sullen friend. Before this, the man had shown no clear sign of suspicion; at least no more than was natural in such a fellow, but at this point he began to grow quite maddeningly unnerved. And it was evident that he began to suspect something, though his suspicions were fortunately turned to a red-faced, flame-haired gardener slumped at the bar, and not towards me.

"Within thirty minutes of our arrival at that singular place of filth and drink, four men entered. I will not bore you with the description of each, for only the final one was of interest. He was a sturdy fellow, in what seemed the queerest dress I have likely witnessed for some time. It was neither like that of a city dweller, nor of a man of the country, and though I should have said he was a man who had done some manual labor in his life, I could not discern of what trade he was now. At his appearance, my earlier friend started up, and showed all signs of great excitement and distraction. They met, and having settled down at a rather unsteady table of oak in the corner, they set to talking, taking great pains to make certain of their privacy. And the first gradually fell into what was, apparently, his usual attitude and manner. Quite entirely different from his most recent sullenness and such.

"I contrived to come somewhat closer to their place than my previous position, and in a better way to overhear their singular dialogue. Much of it was quite obscure, and useless so far to my knowledge, and at times their voices dropped too low to be heard. But they were clearly connected to Van Sarn – and even more clearly they were somehow associated with this present affair of the children.

"They were evidently, merely hired and paid for their services, and at least the second had very little knowledge of the whole affair. But the first – the man I had followed – was much more intriguing. In what he supposed was his unobserved converse with the other, he let fall all pretence of dullness, and his sullen mask was replaced by a most sharp and discerning man. I could not, I must confess, see his face from my position, a fact that greatly nettled me. What indeed, could have been learned had I been able to observe him more closely! But I heard him quite clearly, and his intonation and words were well worth contemplating.

"I shall not repeat their entire dialogue, for I am certain it would do you little good. However, it was nearly twenty minutes into their conference, when they spoke a most useful few words.

" 'Where then, did he get to?' asked the second man.

" 'Van Sarn isn't going anywhere,' said the formerly sullen-faced fellow.

" 'You know what I meant, Tallow,' said the second grimly.

"Now Watson, you may not understand the great importance of the foolishness of dropping that name. Every convict, cheat, thief and murderer in London knows it. For it is the name – or the chief name – of one of the most talented and skilled actors ever to grace the planet."

"Actor?" said I, with some disbelief

"Actor." continued my companion. "If he were to imitate you, my dear Watson, with the precise make-up and costume to assume your features, I assure you, he might very well fool me for an instant. But as you see, the implication that he was the one to follow Van Sarn was a grave one. I had thought that he was still serving his time, as I had got him convicted of murder some few years ago. Before your time, Watson, I see you are somewhat bewildered. He had not been hanged, for the magistrate was certain of his insanity. However, in all honesty, I tell you, a more sane man never stood in the dock. He is twisted; he has used all the skill and talent that he has had the fortune to be blessed with for evil. But – unfortunately – he is quite sane."

It took me some moments to gather all this information into a form of mental neatness. And as I contemplated, my companion fell back, eyes closed, puffing thoughtfully upon his pipe. After a few moments though, he resumed his tale. 

"Well, as I said, I listened to that singular dialogue, now with even more fervor for the knowledge of Van Sarn's shadow.

" 'He went to the detective's,' continued Tallow. I could not see the expression upon his face unfortunately.

" 'Sherlock Holmes!' cried the second fiercely, and Tallow hissed him to silence. 'That damned meddler – '

" 'He didn't stay. Saw me and got cold feet.' said Tallow

" 'Do you think that matters?' snapped the other with some emphasis. 'You went for a reason. He didn't recognize you?'

" 'Who?' came Tallow's question.

" 'Holmes!' hissed the other.

"I had some brief feeling of amusement, Watson, for it was quite an odd situation, and rather fortunate to some extent, you must admit. But to hear my name over and over, with such force was both amusing and somewhat unnerving. For the hatred in the second man's tone was far from pleasant.

" Tallow though made a quick and sharp reply, and I stifled any amusement I might have felt.

" 'Not in the least." snapped he 'Why should he?' 

" 'If he gets on the case now, 'twill be no good for anyone,' said his companion.

" 'Now? Why now? We've got only three more to go, and the pay is ours,' replied the actor. 

" 'Never mind it now.' said he. 'Just you pray it doesn't end with you at the end of a rope.'

" 'And why would it, pray?' came Tallow's voice.

"There was a silence. I strained to pick up any slight communication that might be passing between them, but I could not. One or the other had become more prudently wary, and dropped his voice to the lowest possible level, the other following his example. What I did manage to pick up in the course and continuation of their converse was, seemingly, of the most dire matters. More death, Watson, is to be expected."

"But why? Did you not discover the purpose?"

"If purpose there be…" said my companion vaguely. And then he looked up. "The worst crimes, I think, are the purposeless ones, Watson; the instances in which no possible rational explanation is at hand. This one may or may not end with the realization that there was no clear reason, or intent, but as is clear, I can see no motive. No sane one, at any rate – and there is the definition; but I am certain it is simple. Simple yet so entirely strange and foreign that I cannot fathom it! It is maddening."

He fell into a pensive silence, and I saw that his telling of his experience had tinged his lightened air with a somewhat grim attitude. However, in a moment he went on, speaking evenly, his gaze distinctly distant.

"They continued some little time, Watson. Yet I was entirely unable to hear their words. At last they both rose, and slipped out the door. I intended to follow, but just moments after their departure, another man entered. Cringing and shuffling, he staggered to a table and collapsed – imagine my surprise at recognizing our singular visitor of the morning! Yet my surprise was greater still, when, I having moved to a seat before him, he glanced up and began crying in the most pitiable voice, 'I'm innocent! I'm innocent!' 

"I caught his arm, for he sprang up as if again to flee, and then he recognized me. His face turned white as a sheet, and he began gasping desperately.

" 'I'm innocent, I swear – ' he repeated, yet in an entirely different tone. So very disparate were his intonations, despite the sameness of the words, he seemed to be saying something absolutely different. 'I'm innocent, Mr. Holmes –'

" 'Hush!' I snapped sharply, pushing him back. 'My name is hardly welcomed in such places as this.'

" 'I'm innocent! Oh God help me, - I am…' said he.

" 'Of what?' I asked.

" 'Of the children, Mr –' he began

" 'No mention of name, sir.' I ordered grimly.

" 'I didn't do it!' he cried. 'I'll tell you everything. I didn't mean it. I thought I was helping, but then I saw …'

"Apparently, Watson, he meant to make a clean breast of it there and then. But it was a terribly inconvenient place for such a thing, and already our scene was drawing unwanted attention.

" 'Quietly and calmly, sir,' said I. 'Unless you wish us both dead.'

" 'The children, sir –dead. It's no accident. I know.' gasped he. 'I should have said today. But I was afraid –'

" 'You were followed," I said.

"His eyes widened, and he seemed to choke.

" 'I, I was. But I lost him, coming back here, I'm sure.' said he. 'Oh promise…promise I won't be taken – they'll send me to prison. They'll hang me,'

" 'Come with me,' I ordered, beginning to stand. But he caught at my sleeve, holding me back with a convulsive strength.

" 'You can't. I can't. I have to say it here, now. In Surrey, then in Kent… Near Winchester and…Lee, Mr. Holmes – Lee. You must remember - please –' said he with a most irritating vagary, and then abruptly stopped.

"I do not know what he saw. Yet it must surely have been some terrible sign or warning, for in a moment he had leapt up and fled.

"I pursued him immediately. But in my haste I neglected somewhat, to observe as is my custom. And I found myself behind the seedy public house, in a dark side-alley, making the acquaintance of those lovely individuals whom I had listened to with such fervor. Van Sarn was nowhere to be seen, however it was evident that our meeting had been perceived, at least to some extent. And, my dear Watson, I assure you, they were very eager to have me out of the way.

"I escaped their attentions by clambering over a brick wall into some innocent Londoner's garden. That being somewhere near eight o'clock, I then proceeded to Scotland-Yard, at which point I extracted as much information from Lestrade as would be useful, and received much that would certainly not be.

"And that was the conclusion to my day. You have now, most all the facts which I gathered upon my excursion," he finished, with a short glance in my direction, his eyes glittering. "It has been a much more pleasant evening than I have been fortunate enough to experience for some time, you must admit, Watson." 

"Certainly, my dear Holmes, a somewhat more exciting one," I replied, "You have some certain theory then?"                                           

"Not in the least," said he, "It is, as I believe I have told you, a capital mistake to theorize before one has any certain data. I think that perhaps, a visit to one or more of these unfortunate families of the dying children, would be in order. But now I have a few matters to attend to," 

"I think, Holmes, that your bed might need attending to," said I with some insistence. "You have quite neglected it."

He had risen, and was now poring intently over some document upon his desk. He replied without turning, his thin fingers running thoughtfully across the paper.

"Bed! My dear Watson, I have got a thread, and I cannot allow it be yanked away by something so trifling as sleep,"

"Trifling-!" I cried,

"Pray, turn-in if you wish, dear fellow," he interrupted. "I shall be quiet, and I may need you in the morning…"

He trailed off. The vacant, distracted light that showed mental abstraction crept into his certain gaze, and I realized that by no persistence of mine would he take his night's rest. I fear that by this time, I was quite too weary to inquire any further into the case; or truly even to argue any longer with the perversely stubborn detective. With a sigh, I retired, thoughts of the frantic Van Sarn, drowning children and my friend's pensive gaze following me into my dreams.

~

A/N: Comments! Thoughts – certainly even criticisms, please. _Por favor. Pu'zhal'sta. Bitte. _Etcetera. Even suggestions as to the story's plot, are perfectly acceptable. My tale, I assume, remains to a great extent, consistent. 

As always,

Toodles - IMP


	5. Obscurity upon Obscurity

Children's Whims _(working title)_

Chapter 5

By Imp

A/N: This has taken a bit longer. And it does not enumerate as much as I should like. (I fear I am rather too ambitious.) Blame Jeremy Brett, anyone who wished to read this sooner; it's his fault. He's been distracting me.

~

I woke the following morning somewhat earlier than was my wont, after surrendering to the inevitable fact of Holmes's inability to sleep – or lack of care for it. However, I was confident of finding him still in the sitting room, bending over some cryptic note, or detailed report from Scotland Yard – the ash of his pipe and the scattered papers of his toils strewn about him when I woke. I was feeling quite refreshed, and the darkness and obscurity of the evening had given way to the hope of the morning, and the rising rays of the early sun. The light seemed surely to be a certain sign of the clarity which would inevitably be infused into the wretched affair. However, when I entered the room, I found it empty, at least to the extent that empty implies the lack of an inhabitant. For in all other ways it was far from empty. Every sign of my companion's nocturnal labors were apparent. The table, which I had expected to be eating at presently, was absolutely filthy with pipe-ash and cigarette stubs, and was strewn with some documents from his numerous notebooks and files. The entire room was littered with other such papers. And the ever-present violin was leaning in a somewhat precarious position against armchair and coal-scuttle. Perched lightly upon the back of the chair facing my companion's, was the disfigured hat of his most recent adventure. It had, evidently, been the object of some minute examination, for the lens lay near at hand, but the reason for such an examination I could not fathom.

As I passed through the room, in some state of amazement at its utterly untidy transformation, I observed other such things as told of my companion's nighttime vigil. It was, all in all with decided certainty, the worst state I had ever witnessed in such a chamber, and it was done, as was Holmes's want, with the most precise attention to the completeness of the disorder. And yet his absence was all the more bewildering, for he had stated clearly the previous night that he might need my assistance in the morning.

With a sigh, I fell into a chair at the table. Any thought of tidying had quite left my mind, and I abandoned the room as a lost cause. I had some thoughts of regret, for I had been looking forward to a peaceful breakfast after the events of the past day. The probability however, of such a meal was now deplorably small, and I doubted greatly whether Mrs. Hudson would comply with setting out anything upon that sadly littered table. Dubious also, was my will to attempt breakfast in what had become an ashtray. Then added to these suddenly rather dim thoughts, was the question of Holmes's whereabouts, a question that caused me no little anxiety after his most recent outing.

My eye lighted upon the table as my thoughts wandered dissolutely, and I attempted a somewhat hasty clearing of its surface with a few swipes of my handkerchief. Glancing downwards, I found myself looking at a crumpled and spotted sheet of notepaper. It should have looked highly ordinary and singularly uninteresting, had it not been filled with my companion's close, neat script, somewhat unclear for the apparent haste in which it had been written. It had been hidden underneath a document printed entirely in foreign characters – and I should likely have tossed it to join the other papers and documents surrounding, but the finely printed heading arrested my gaze and movement. It was printed, which was highly unusual, however, more unusual still were the words. _The Whims of Children_ it read; and as any one who may have read something of my poor records, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was hardly known for his dealings or thoughts concerning the youngest of the human race.

In both curiosity and some perplexity, I brushed the last remains of my companion's ubiquitous ash from that singular paper, bending more closely over it. Following that most peculiarly singular heading, were what must have been notes, and enumeration upon the present affair. I was at first, wary of making my examination too minute, for Holmes has never been the most open, or even the most courteous to those who show too much curiosity before he wishes to explain. Moreover, I doubted greatly whether the paper was even condoned in his own incisive mind, as reasonable. In spite of all this, I raised the thing, my curiosity getting the better of any other sense or urge I possessed.

It appeared at the first as something almost like a draft of one of those singular monographs which he was so fond of writing. My perplexity concerning the article increased however as I read. For the thing touched on the most abstruse subjects. Not only did it detail facts, but it went on to contemplate the most ineffable peculiarities; perception, madness – and some form of the most obscure religious heresy during the 13th century. Never the less – and perhaps to my surprise – the reasoning and form remained as lucid as the reasoner himself. But my confusion and bewilderment were yet made greater, for the page ended in a detailed discourse upon premonitions. Of all things, I could find little of which it seemed likely to have much less bearing upon the case. 

From below came a sudden disturbance, and the sound of at least one raised voice. I spun about in my chair, wondering what in the world could cause such a commotion. There was the sound of muffled dialogue – sounding certainly rather insistent - and then a woman's shriek broke the morning tranquility, and steps echoed upon the stair.

A moment later, Holmes entered, pale and somewhat haggard, his face still marked by his adventures of the previous evening. With a brief, distracted apology to Mrs. Hudson, he shut the door firmly and turned.

"Watson!" he cried, eye lighting. "I had thought I would need to knock you up, but you woke early I see."

"Where in the world have you been?"

"Oh, many places," said he vaguely, "And as more than one person. Sadly, my efforts were late despite my swift start. All threads in London are broken. You haven't a match, have you? I seem to have lost mine, and I should like a cigarette before going."

I sat back down heavily. I had begun to hand him my box of matches, but his declaration of having to depart again quite startled me.

"Going?"

"Yes." He replied, sinking back into his chair without removing either his gloves or over coat. "You would not be averse to an excursion to the country, would you Watson?"

"Well, no."

"Excellent. Our train leaves in little less than an hour, I fancy, and you ought to have just enough time to get your things in order."

"Our train? My dear Holmes, you are unfathomable. What of Van Sarn, the children, this case!"

"Van Sarn," said Holmes, striking a match, "Has fled to Holland. I missed him by moments. Tallow has vanished with very little trace, and the confounded police force insist that he is in Kent, and has been since his release from prison. A release, which frankly, has neither sense nor reason behind it. And as for the children, you may see for yourself – I have had a wire from Lestrade."

He tossed a scrap of paper carelessly across, drawing the smoke of his cigarette in pensively. I unfolded the crumpled article, and it did well to clear my confusion, at least to some extent, over my companion's sudden wish to depart for the country. I have here set down a nearly precise facsimile of its contents.

__

Another child; broken neck; [it read]_ same family. If you care to investigate, come immediately – Mawdett Estate, Surrey._

-Lestrade

"Another!" I cried in dismay.

"Yes," said Holmes vaguely, gazing at the wall. "A rather opportune, though tragic event. Lestrade, I think, has finally realized what I have known for some time. He is quite out of his depth. And is it not an absurd coincidence for another child of the same household to so meet his end? It is highly suggestive, you will admit. And it also presents a most useful situation, for I will be able to investigate one of these doubtful 'accidents' first hand."

"Why have you not done so before hand?" I inquired, glancing up.

"Lestrade." responded my companion, as if this answered my question to the fullest extent. 

"But surely –"

"Kindly pack your things," he interrupted, glancing suddenly with a piercing intent at the clock. "We have very little time for questions."

I have observed that Sherlock Holmes becomes most reticent when on a scent, and it was apparent that he had some new lead from his night's work and morning activities. Yet I questioned him no further. His aspect was grim, and what he would say he said with no prompting, and by no means would he enumerate more for being asked. What premonitions had to do with it, I could not guess, neither could I fathom any connection between heresies in the Roman Church and children's deaths. But I assumed faithfully, that all would be explained in time, and these deaths ended.

And so I found myself hurriedly shoving the few items I thought necessary for a country excursion into a carpet bag. And soon after dashing in pursuit of my nervously energetic companion, who hailed a hansom, I found myself careening off for Paddington Station.

~

A/N: I'm sorry I could not get to the country investigation. I have been having problems with what some call, 'writer's block' – a most irritating phenomena. Thank you reviewers, and kindly continue to give your thoughts – I assure you, you are not a nuisance. I can't recall what else I was going to write. If you have any questions, you may email me. (Thank you, Prismplay - my computer does not recognise _wont_, nor does it like British spellings. I suppose I missed correcting that correction.

Toodles - IMP


End file.
